The Hunt for Red October

stalwart and faithful Party member. I cannot imagine—”

“Comrade Padorin,” Defense Minister Ustinov interrupted, “we presume that you also could not imagine the unbelievable treachery of this Ramius. You now expect us to trust your judgment on this man also?”

“The most disturbing thing of all,” added Mikhail Alexandrov, the Party theoretician who had replaced the dead Mikhail Suslov and was even more determined than the departed ideologue to be simon-pure on Party doctrine, “is how tolerant the Main Political Administration has been toward this renegade. It is amazing, particularly in view of his obvious efforts to construct his own personality cult throughout the submarine service, even in the political arm, it would seem. Your criminal willingness to overlook this — this obvious aberration from Party policy — does not make your judgment appear very sound.”

“Comrades, you are correct in judging that I erred badly in approving Ramius for command, and also that we allowed him to select most of Red October’s senior officers. At the same time, we chose some years ago to do things in this way, to keep officers associated with a single ship for many years, and to give the captain great sway over their careers. This is an operational question, not a political one.”

“We have already considered that,” Narmonov replied. “It is true that in this case there is enough blame for more than one man.” Gorshkov didn’t move, but the message was explicit: his effort to separate himself from this scandal had failed. Narmonov didn’t care how many heads it took to prop up his chair.

“Comrade Chairman,” Gorshkov objected, “the efficiency of the fleet—”

“Efficiency?” Alexandrov said. “Efficiency. This Lithuanian half-breed is efficiently making fools of our fleet with his chosen officers while our remaining ships blunder about like newly castrated cattle.” Alexandrov alluded to his first job on a state farm. A fitting beginning, it was generally thought, for the man who held the position of chief ideologue was as popular in Moscow as the plague, but the Politburo had to have him or one like him. The ideological chieftain was always the kingmaker. Whose side was he on now — in addition to his own?

“The most likely explanation is that Putin was murdered,” Padorin continued. “He alone of the officers left behind a wife and family.”

“That’s another question, Comrade Admiral.” Narmonov seized this issue. “Why is it that none of these men are married? Didn’t that tell you something? Must we of the Politburo supervise everything? Can’t you think for yourselves?”

As if you want us to, Padorin thought. “Comrade General Secretary, most of our submarine commanders prefer young, unmarried officers in their wardrooms. Duty at sea is demanding, and single men have fewer distractions. Moreover, each of the senior officers aboard is a Party member in good standing with a praiseworthy record. Ramius has been treacherous, there is no denying that, and I would gladly kill the son of a bitch with my own hands — but he has deceived more good men than there are in this room.”

“Indeed,” Alexandrov observed. “And now that we are in this mess, how do we get out of it?”

Padorin took a deep breath. He’d been waiting for this. “Comrades, we have another man aboard Red October, unknown to either Putin or Captain Ramius, an agent of the Main Political Administration.”

“What?” Gorshkov said. “And why did I not know of this?”

Alexandrov smiled. “That’s the first intelligent thing we’ve heard today. Go on.”

“This individual is covered as an enlisted man. He reports directly to our office, bypassing all operational and political channels. His name is Igor Loginov. He is twenty-four, a—”

“Twenty-four!” Narmonov shouted. “You trust a child with this responsibility?”

“Comrade, Loginov’s mission is to blend in with the conscripted crewmen, to listen in on conversations, to identify likely traitors, spies, and saboteurs. In truth he looks younger still. He serves alongside young men, and he must be young himself. He is, in fact, a graduate of the higher naval school for political officers at Kiev and the GRU intelligence academy. He is the son of Arkady Ivanovich Loginov, chief of the Lenin Steel Plant at Kazan. Many of you here know his father.” Narmonov was among those who nodded, a flickering of interest in his eyes. “Only an elite few are chosen for this duty. I have met and interviewed this boy myself. His record is clear, he is a Soviet patriot without question.”

“I know his father,” Narmonov confirmed. “Arkady Ivanovich is an honorable man who has raised several good sons. What are this boy’s orders?”

“As I said, Comrade General Secretary, his ordinary duties are to observe the crewmen and report on what he sees. He’s been doing this for two years, and he is good at it. He does not report to the zampolit aboard, but only to Moscow or to one of my representatives. In a genuine emergency, his orders are to report to the zampolit. If Putin is alive — and I do not believe this, comrades — he would be part of the conspiracy, and Loginov would know not to do this. In a true emergency, therefore, his orders are to destroy the ship and make his escape.”

“This is possible?” Narmonov asked. “Gorshkov?”

“Comrades, all of our ships carry powerful scuttling charges, submarines especially.”

“Unfortunately,” Padorin said, “these are generally not armed, and only the captain can activate them. Ever since the incident on Storozhevoy, we in the Main Political Administration have had to consider that an incident such as this one was indeed a possibility, and that its most damaging manifestation would involve a missile-carrying submarine.”

“Ah,” Narmonov observed, “he is a missile mechanic.”

“No, Comrade, he is a ship’s cook,” Padorin replied.

“Wonderful! He spends all his day boiling potatoes!” Narmonov’s hands flew up in the air, his hopeful demeanor gone in an instant, replaced with palpable wrath. “You wish your bullet now, Padorin?”

“Comrade Chairman, this is a better cover assignment than you may imagine.” Padorin did not flinch, wanting to show these men what he was made of. “On Red October the officers’ accommodations and galley are aft. The crew’s quarters are forward — the crew eat there since they do not have a separate messroom — with the missile room in between. As a cook he must travel back and forth many times each day, and his presence in any particular area will not be thought unusual. The food freezer is located adjacent to the lower missile deck forward. It is not our plan that he should activate the scuttling charges. We have allowed for the possibility that the captain could disarm them. Comrades, these measures have been carefully thought out.”

“Go on,” Narmonov grunted.

“As Comrade Gorshkov explained earlier, Red October carries twenty-six Seahawk missiles. These are solid-fuel rockets, and one has a range-safety package installed.”

“Range safety?” Narmonov was puzzled.

Up to this point the other military officers at the meeting, none of them Politburo members, had kept their peace. Padorin was surprised when General V.M. Vishenkov, commander of the Strategic Rocket Forces, spoke up. “Comrades, these details were worked out through my office some years ago. As you know, when we test our missiles, we have safety packages aboard to explode them if they go off course. Otherwise they might land on one of our own cities. Our operational missiles do not ordinarily carry them — for the obvious reason, the imperialists might learn a way to explode them in flight.”

“So, our young GRU comrade will blow up the missile. What of the warheads?” Narmonov asked. An engineer by training, he could always be distracted by technical discourse, always impressed by a clever one.

“Comrade,” Vishenkov went on, “the missile warheads are armed by accelerometers. Thus they cannot be armed until the missile reaches its full programmed speed. The Americans use the same system, and for the same reason, to prevent sabotage. These safety systems are absolutely reliable. You could drop one of the reentry vehicles from the top of the Moscow television transmitter onto a steel plate and it would not fire.” The general referred to the massive TV tower whose construction Narmonov had personally supervised while head of the Central Communications Directorate. Vishenkov was a skilled political operator.

“In the case of a solid-fuel rocket,” Padorin continued, recognizing his debt to Vishenkov, wondering what he’d ask for in return, and hoping he’d live long enough to deliver, “a safety package ignites all of the missile’s three stages simultaneously.”

“So the missile just takes off?” Alexandrov asked.

“No, Comrade Academician. The upper stage might, if it could break through the missile tube hatch, and this would flood the missile room, sinking the submarine. But even if it did not, there is sufficient thermal energy in